


Numb

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation (2015)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, M/M, POV First Person, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7366858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Struggling to return to his old life after having defeated The Syndicate, Ethan does something absolutely unthinkable...</p>
<p>(** Please read notes before reading **)</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Ethan. Self beta'd
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: This *should* come with a warning. (Trigger. 'Not your thing'. Offensive.) I'm not, however, explicitly spelling it out as... well, it would give the plot away. (What I will say though is that... Yes. It relates to a form of abuse. So, please, if you're likely to react to that as a theme... Turn back now and don't read.)
> 
> This... may work how I would like / hope it does in my mind, or it... may not. I honestly don't know and, not having written anything in months, I'm just forcing myself to go through older pieces in the hope of once again finding inspiration...

=========  
Numb  
by TalithaX  
=========

 

The ability to close my eyes and actually go to sleep continuing to elude me just as it has for over six months now, I gaze up into the darkness and can't for the life of me decide what to do with myself. It's not that I don't have options, as I do. I could break the habit of a lifetime and take a sleeping pill. Or I could get up and try to subdue my treacherous brain by reading. Or, and this is the most compelling option of all, it really is, I could get dressed and, in the context of simply going for a run, leave the house and...

… Just never come back.

I could disappear.

I... should... disappear.

After tonight I should take my poison and leave. Not before it gets worse because, hey, been there, done that and have the sick, gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach to prove it, but before I really do it and succeed in both destroying what little hope Will could possibly have left and dragging him down to my gutter dwelling level once and for all.

I should...

No.

I...

… Need to free him.

He deserves, contrary to his deep seated beliefs on the subject, better. Hell. He deserves a lot better. As fucking obvious as it sounds, he deserves to be treated in the same way he treats others. He deserves kindness, and patience, and – again with stating the fucking obvious here – respect. He deserves to be loved, and appreciated, and to know, above and beyond everything else, that it's more than okay to speak up, that he doesn't just...

… Have to take it.

He doesn't, even if, having had it entrenched in him over the years, he simply takes it for granted, have to take any of it.

Not my detachment, or coldness, or dismissive, apathetic attitude, and...

Oh God...

… He certainly didn't have to take what I did to him tonight.

In his own bedroom, in his own house. The house, without hesitation, he insisted I stay in because, thanks to Hunley's obsession with dissecting every last point of my life, my own had been both locked up and my belongings shipped off to storage. To Will, it simply made perfect sense. Happy, albeit both mistakenly and foolishly, to have me back, inviting me to share his house would have just been second nature to him. And, wanting to hold on to the vain belief that everything was going to be okay, that the last six months of being on my own wasn't going to have any lasting effects and that I was going to reintegrate back into my old life with minimum fuss, I accepted.

I accepted Will's kind offer because I wanted things to be okay.

I wanted to put the lonely, exhausting, and obsessive six months of hunting down The Syndicate behind me, and I wanted things to be... normal.

IMF. Friends. Not constantly feeling as though I had to be watching my back. Just... being able to be with Will, my lover and who, for the past four months, I'd accepted that I was never even going to see again. Being part of a team. Relaxing. Closing one long and dark chapter of my life and both returning to the fold and moving forward.

I wanted it all so badly.

Only...

I...

I can't assimilate.

I can't go from being on my own and focussed solely on my own personal goal of bringing The Syndicate down, to...

… Just being Ethan Hunt. Agent, friend, lover, and... decent human being.

I remember him. Just as I can remember how the sight of Will's smile never failed to make me feel like the luckiest man alive and how there wasn't a thing I wouldn't do for him. How... 

… I believed I could never hurt him.

I remember it all.

What I also remember though, and what I can't break free from, are the past six months. On my own. No team, or backup, or even IMF for that matter. Nothing. I had nothing but my own wits. Everything else, everything that, yes, I had actually adapted to and took comfort from, had been taken from me and I just had to make do without it. It wasn't fun, and there were days when I honestly felt as though things were never going to end, that, having chosen this path for myself, I was going to be on it forever, but I survived. I did what I felt it was I had to do and, for the bulk of the time, I did it on my own. I moved on from missing Will and everything he represented – love, comfort, team, IMF – by closing myself off to what I'd lost and by just pushing forward. The Syndicate. My goal was The Syndicate, not getting back to everything I'd left behind.

And, I don't know, I can't help but think now that perhaps it was just... better... that way.

On my own. No-one to depend on, or to expect anything from me. No-one to care, or worry about. Anonymous, no-strings attached sex to scratch an itch when needed. No-one breathing down my neck and telling me either where to be or what to do. Sure, it was lonely, and a one night stand, regardless of how spectacular they may be, doesn't come close to getting to wake, curled around someone you actually love, but...

It worked.

I survived.

Which...

… Is more than can be said for my return to D.C..

I...

I admit that it sounds like over-kill, or that I'm being melodramatic simply because I can't be bothered putting any effort in to it and just want to take the coward's, or easy way out, but I feel as though I'm suffocating.

Meetings. Everything that's needing to go in to getting the IMF fully operational again. Hunley not being able to look me in the eye. Benji pretending that he's fine, that what Lane put him through hasn't left any mental scars at all. Jane, fresh from her brief stint at the F.B.I., wanting to know everything in the tiniest detail. Will...

… Just being Will.

Understanding. Compassionate. Willing to be there in whatever way I might need him. Non judgemental. Loving.

Passive. Too scared of inadvertently upsetting me to – tell me to pull my head out of my own ass – speak up. So firmly of the opinion that whatever it is that's wrong with me would somehow have to be his fault anyway, that...

… He just takes it.

Just as, and if this doesn't put a huge fucking question mark over what's left of my morals then I don't know what would, I know he will.

I know that he'll take it, because, regardless of the fact I'm not doing a very good job of showing it at the moment, I know Will.

I know how his mind operates. His brilliant, analytical mind that's as much an asset to the IMF as it is a detriment to his personal life. I know that he'll always put his own needs last because, and even with my current status of being the forerunner for the coveted Asshole of the Year award it still pains me as much as it pisses me off to say this, he doesn't believe he matters. Too many people, both professionally and personally, having done a number on him by using him over the years, he's just come to accept that he's better off keeping his opinions to himself because, going on history, it's not as though anyone's going to either listen or care anyway.

I know this – not because I'm such a great fucking mind reader – because he told me. Reluctantly, and in a quiet voice that I occasionally struggled to hear, he told me about the lover during his college years that went out of his way to make him feel worthless, and how his first boss deliberately made him take the fall for a mistake the boss himself had made (and hadn't liked having had it pointed out to him by a mere rookie), and how, really, the obliterating sense of doubt that had been installed in him after Croatia was yet another example of there clearly being something wrong with him.

Wrong.

Will, who, what with his ability to jump from field work to being their number one analyst with ease, is more of a credit to the IMF than I'll ever be, thinks there's something... wrong... with him.

Wrong. Because he still dreams of being accepted for who he is and what he has to offer.

Even now, now that I'm the worst of all, I still want to find both that douche bag from his college years and his idiot of a first boss and beat their heads against a brick wall as Will's worth a hundred of each of them.

And probably a thousand of me.

I can say, with both conviction and until I'm blue in the face, that I don't know what came over me as it's true. God knows I'd never planned it. Fuck. Knowing, believe it or not, that it's quite frankly one of the worst things you could ever do to another person, it's not even as though it's something I'd even contemplated before.

What I can't say though is that, once the seed had been planted, I...

… Didn't know what I was doing.

As I did.

Unable to quieten the noise of doubt and confusion in my head, I wanted it.

I wanted to show him what it was I felt I'd become after having been on my own for so long, and I wanted to give him reason to – break free – hate me.

I wanted him to see... the light and give up on me.

I didn't want...

… It.

What I did.

What I took from him when I know, if I hadn't caught him off guard and had given him a moment to compose himself, he'd have given willingly if only I'd asked.

Only, I didn't ask.

I didn't plan, and I didn't ask. I just... reacted.

Already in a bad mood from all the meetings and tiresome, pointless hours spent with the psychologist, Will coming home all upbeat and enthusiastic at seeing how all the hard work he'd been putting in to getting the IMF back online was coming together was just the final straw. Still thinking of me and how he knew I'd be worn out from my day of – doing nothing – playing nice, he'd stopped to pick up take-away on the way home and, God help me, the sight of the bag in his hand was another red rag to a bull. Despite being tired himself and not needing to eat as he'd had a sandwich in the office, he'd put himself out to make sure I didn't go hungry and to say I was infuriated by his simple act of kindness would just be an understatement. I was livid and, instead of thanking him for it, I ranted about not being worth his effort for a few minutes before issuing forth with an always classy 'whatever!' and storming into the bedroom. 

Will, who already wouldn't have known what hit him at this point, then made the mistake of coming after me, and...

… That's when I lost it.

When I lost...

… Everything.

My mind. Right from wrong. The ability to call myself a decent member of society.

The right to ever look Will in the eye again.

He walked into the room and, bang, just like that, I resented him.

I resented his crumpled suit and the way he was clearly deriving a sense of achievement from the work he was putting in to getting the IMF operational again. I also resented the expression of worry on his pale face and the fact that he wouldn't be blaming me for having put it there. Oh no. Instead of coming upstairs to inquire as to what had crawled up my butt and died, he came to apologise for having upset me and to ask if there was anything he could do to help.

He'd done nothing wrong, yet there he was. Contrite and wanting to make it better.

And...

I don't know what came over me.

Maybe, in my fit of resentment and ever growing hatred towards myself, I saw him as he's been made to see himself.

Submissive.

Good for one thing, and one thing only.

Too worked up to think straight, let alone to take a deep breath and let common sense step in, I got up, both propelled him against the wall and tore his suit jacket off like a man possessed, and...

I can't sugar coat it, or paint it in any less offensive manner, as...

… I did what I did.

I raped him.

I raped Will, my lover and who, without a shadow of doubt, would have to be the best man I've ever been fortunate enough to know.

Although he could have fought me off, Will, he...

Did nothing.

Or, to put it a different way, he let me.

He let me tear down his trousers and boxers before shoving him on to the bed on his stomach and just, with both the most cursory of preparation and my hand constantly yanking on his tie, fucking him.

Hard.

I fucked him hard.

And Will, he just took it. He didn't try to fight or reason with me, he just let me have my way without so much as a whimper passing through his lips. I manhandled him into position, slapped his ass, and very nearly choked him with his own tie, and he... just let me. He let me force myself on him without comment, just as...

He's still letting me. Only, in this case, it's stay.

Not just in the house, but in his bed.

With him.

Under the covers of the same bed I raped him on only hours before, Will lies, asleep, on the mattress next to me. On his side and, granted, far closer to the edge than he is to me, he's where he wants to be for some unknown reason, and I...

… Don't think I can stand it.

I certainly don't deserve it, and nor do I know, short of succumbing to the desire to disappear, what to do about it.

When I'd finished and, yes, to my absolute disgust my assault on Will did bring me to climax, I simply climbed off the bed and went into the en suite without looking at him. The red mist, or adrenaline, or... whatever the hell it was... having dissipated with my orgasm, I felt as dithery as I did sick. I knew exactly what it was I'd done and, like now, I didn't know what to do about it. In fact, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to say I wanted to die. While wanting Will to hate me and get as far away from me as he could for his own good, knowing what I'd done to him, it just nauseated me. I'd done something absolutely heinous to someone I still, deep down and in my limited way, cared about, and I hated myself.

I also knew that simply apologising, even if I crawled across the floor on my stomach and begged for his forgiveness, would never even come close to cutting it.

So...

I did nothing.

Nothing constructive, at any rate.

I sat on the closed lid of the toilet, and both mentally berated and called myself every name under the sun, and... that was it. 

What's more, I suspect that's where I'd still be if it wasn't for Will.

Will, who used the time I was hiding in the en suite to have a shower in the other bathroom and put his pyjamas on and who, to my disbelief, appeared to be wanting me to come to bed with him.

“I'm going to bed and I suggest, seeing as it's late, you come and join me.”

That's it. That's all he said.

He even knocked on the door of the en suite before entering and, despite feeling anything but worthy – of still breathing, let alone Will's apparent forgiveness – I just nodded and, after a quick shower, did as he'd suggested.

It was just easier than thinking of an alternative.

I pulled on pyjamas and got into bed next to the man I'd just raped. Lacking both the right and the words needed to speak, I didn't even try and neither did he. We simply settled on our opposite sides of the mattress and, in Will's case at least, went to sleep. I know he's asleep by the sound of his breathing and can only imagine that he must have taken a pill before getting me from the bathroom. Pathetically, and this can just be added to my ever growing list of things that just happen to be wrong with me, I'm envious of the fact he's managed to go to sleep and isn't lying there going over and over things in his head like I am.

Envious.

Get that?

Instead of being grateful that he's found, however brief it may be, a reprieve from the cold, inescapable fact of what just happened, I'm fucking jealous of it.

And, oh God, I hate myself for that too.

Suddenly feeling as though I can't breathe and the walls are closing in on me, I carefully, so as not to risk disturbing Will, get out of bed and, with no thought other than needing fresh air, hurry down the stairs to the front door. Opening it quietly, I step outside onto the mat and, still feeling as though I'm dangerously close to having my first ever panic attack, take hurried gulps of the chilly night air.

Just...

Fuck.

What have I done?

It's one thing trying to fight through my demons on my own, but it's something else entirely to unleash them on someone else. 

I just...

I'm no saint, and I don't shirk from the fact I've done a lot of questionable things in my time. I've lied, and cheated, and, when it all boils down to it, probably lived half of my adult life pretending to be someone else in order to achieve just whatever my all important goal just happened to be at the time. I can, so long as the desired result is something I believe in, pretty much do anything when I put my mind to it, and...

… It's in the name of the IMF.

For my chosen job, I can both do anything and be anyone. It's just a particular skill set I happen to possess. One that, ultimately, most likely has a lot to do with why I'm still here today and not rotting in a pine box somewhere or, worse, forever listed as Missing In Action on the remembrance wall at HQ.

It's just...

What I did tonight...

… I did.

Me.

Not an alias, or someone I was being paid to be, but... me. It was all me. I lost control, allowed myself to be overcome by an emotion that, even now, I can hardly describe, and I destroyed something that, not so very long ago the mere thought of one day returning to, kept me going as much as my obsession with The Syndicate did.

Getting back to Will and knowing that he'd be there whenever I needed him. 

And...

He was there, too.

He was there when I needed him to be, and he tried in his quiet, unassuming way to help me, and I...

I've ruined everything.

The fresh air not really managing to calm me down any, I hug my arms loosely around my torso and concentrate on getting my breathing under control. The night, not to mention what's left of my miserable existence, stretching out before me like an eternity, I'm just starting to contemplate sneaking inside and retrieving my car keys when the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs reaches my ears and I know, just like that, my time has effectively ran out.

“Ethan?”

Escape, short of disappearing in to the night in my pyjamas, not really striking me as an all that viable option, I reluctantly turn around and, for no real reason other than I know I... have... to, step back into the house. I don't, however, look at Will other than to notice he's put the entrance hall light on and is standing at the foot of the stairs and, not exactly surprisingly, wish the floor would just open up and swallow me whole.

“I heard the front door open,” Will comments quietly. “Ethan, I... I thought you might have been leaving.”

“I think what you meant to say was... I hoped you were leaving,” I reply, busying myself with shutting the front door in preference to – manning up – actually looking at Will. “In fact, I should...”

“No,” he interrupts, “you shouldn't go, and... You're wrong. I came downstairs in the hope of stopping you, not... locking the door behind you.”

“How could...” Shaking my head, I lean my back against the door and, all the time paying careful attention to not focussing on a damn thing, gaze in the general vicinity of Will's bare feet. “Look. Having caused enough damage for one night, I really think I should...”

“No,” Will states, once again cutting me off as, perhaps in the hope of managing to catch my eyes, he lowers himself down onto the bottom step and rubs his hands over his knees. “Ethan, we... We need to talk.”

“Talk!” I exclaim, tilting my head back and, not knowing what else to do with my hands because I don't have any pockets to shove them into, folding my arms across my chest. “I think in this instance actions really do speak louder than words and we should...”

“We need to talk,” he repeats in a soft, calm voice that, in my raw, emotional state – regardless of how self-imposed it just happens to be – is like rubbing salt into an open wound.

Just...

… How can he be so calm and composed? Let alone even want me in his sight?

“Ethan, listen to me,” Will continues. “I've done the whole... playing my cards close to my chest and not speaking up because I either didn't think anyone would care or, worse, wouldn't understand where I was coming from, and... I'm here to tell you that it doesn't work. You might think you're doing the right thing by stoically keeping everything to yourself. Hell, you mightn't even have the words to express just whatever it is that's going on in your head, but I... I'm here for you. I'm here for you in whatever way you want or need me and... there's not anything I wouldn't do to help you.”

“How...” Groaning, I slide down the door and slump heavily on to the floor. “Will... How can you say any of that when...” Unable to say it – which, hey, is pretty ironic given that I did it – I groan again and shake my head. “You should have stopped me. Damn it! You... could... have stopped me.”

“You're right. I could have,” Will confirms with a sigh. “Ethan, don't do this to yourself. It...”

“Don't do this to myself?” I echo, jerking my head up and, at long last, gazing at Will in open-mouthed disbelief. “Given what I did to you, it...”

“It's not going to achieve anything,” he murmurs, finishing, I suspect, what he'd been going to say before I interrupted him. “What's done is...”

“You could have stopped me!”

“And, as I just said, I could have.”

“Then why didn't you?” I demand, needing, not that I have any right to expect anything from him, to know... why... Will's just calmly sitting there and all but telling me he just allowed it. “You can fight. Fuck! You're a better fighter than I am and could have had me on my ass before I even knew what had hit me.”

“I could have,” Will agrees, giving me a sad look, “but I wanted to see if you'd stop of your own volition.”

“Well, you certainly got your answer then,” I mutter, pressing my back up against the door and wrapping my arms around my shins.

“I did.”

“Then... Why, for fuck's sake, are you still wanting anything to do with me? Will, you... You'd be perfectly in your right to kick me to the curb!”

“I think the answer I got was different to the one you're thinking of,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Ethan... Please. Talk to me. I can't help you get through this if you won't talk to me.”

“Me?” Not quite believing what I'm hearing, I shake my head and, in a move born out of sheer defensiveness, narrow my eyes and shoot Will an annoyed look. “You want to help... me... get through this? What about...”

“There's clearly something wrong with...”

“No shit!”

“If you'd let me finish, what I'd been going to say is that there's clearly something going on with you at the moment and I want to help.”

“You can't. Not after...”

“Look! It happened. Believe me, I... know... it happened,” Will declares with a sigh of obvious exasperation. “I was there too, you know, and before you feel compelled to accuse me of burying my head in the sand or whatever, I... I'm not in denial and, fine, okay, if you really want to know, if you really feel as though it'll help cement your current goal of self-flaggelation, yes, it shocked me, and yes, it hurt.”

“Will...”

“Uh! I hadn't finished.”

“But...”

“Just shut up and listen for a second. I'm not in denial, it hurt and, trust me, if you ever try it again you'll be spitting teeth out of your mouth before you've even unzipped, but...” Pausing, he takes a deep breath and leans forward. “I forgive you. Something's causing you to... not be yourself at the moment, Ethan, and I know you didn't mean it, that... all of this is as much a shock to you as it is me.”

Lowering my head, I gaze down at my knees and give a half-hearted shrug. “I don't deserve your forgiveness,” I whisper. “Whatever it is that's wrong with me, I... Uh... I had no right, no right at all to take it out on you. It... I don't... What I did, it... it's not me. That is... It shouldn't be. I... I'm not that sort of person.”

“I know you're not,” Will replies in a soothing tone. “What I also know, however, is that something is clearly not right and, as I refuse to let things end this way, that's why I'm begging you to talk to me. Keeping everything to yourself and, trust me, I speak from experience here, it just doesn't achieve anything. Not anything good, anyway.

“Maybe...” I swallow hard and, as it's the night for it, stare down at my knees in case I make the mistake of accidentally catching Will's concerned gaze. “Maybe you're wrong, and... it would be better if things just ended. That way you wouldn't be at risk of being brought down to my...”

“If you want to end it, Ethan, then you've got to come out and say it,” he interrupts. “It's not what I want, but if it's what you've decided you want then... Tell me. Don't close me out or try to scare me away, just... come clean and tell me that it's over.”

“For your sake...”

“No! Not for my sake. Listen to me. I still want you, and I still believe that what we've got is worth fighting for, so...”

“You can't...”

“Actually, I can both say it... and... mean it. Think about it, if I wanted nothing to do with you would I be sitting here attempting the verbal equivalent of beating your head against a wall?”

“Uh... When you put it that way...” Lifting my head slightly, I once again focus my gaze in the direction of his feet and sigh. “I just don't...”

“Say... don't deserve it and, so help me God, I'm going to get up and beat your head against the wall for real!” Will mutters as, no doubt in the hope of getting my attention, he stretches his foot out towards me. “I'm here because I want to be, so... Deal with it and move on.”

“But...”

“Moving on, remember?” he retorts. “Ethan, just... What it is, huh? Something is clearly bothering you and...” Abruptly falling silent, he sighs heavily and waits a couple of seconds before adding, “As I'm starting to get the impression we might never break free of this particular loop, I'm going to change tack and go with being more direct. Which, in this case is... Are you finding no longer being on your own difficult to get your head around? Is that it? In all honesty I can't even begin to imagine what it must have been like out there all on your own for six months and, speaking for myself here at least, I suspect I'd find returning to, well, I suppose you could call it... reality, all a bit overwhelming.”

Slightly surprised, although I don't know why given how perceptive he is, at how easily Will's honed right in on the issue at hand, I don't reply and stall for time by giving a small – yeah, whatever, maybe – shrug. Although he's basically right, I don't really want to admit it to myself, let alone aloud, that...

Yes. It's hard.

Assimilating. Believing. Adapting.

Wanting to pinch myself that it's actually real, that it really is over.

I'd do it all over again if I had to, and I don't, given the importance of the outcome, regret it, but being on my own for six months was actually far harder than I ever would have suspected it could be. I had my all important goal to keep me both focussed and occupied, and I never once stopped believing that I was on to something big enough to make all my personal sacrifices worth it, but...

It was lonely.

And, by the time it was all over, what it also just happened to be was something I'd made my peace with. In fact, I'd even convinced myself that it was actually for the best. Given that the subject is one I can now speak with great authority on, unexpectedly finding yourself alone in the field for an extended period of time is a continuous flow of stages. Like going through Alcoholics Anonymous or the five stages of grief. At first, in a complete state of flux over what had happened not only in London but also Washington as well, it was all very non-stop. My mind was a mass of thoughts pulling me in all directions at once – The Syndicate is real! Who was that woman? The IMF has been disbanded! What am I going to do? – and I survived on pure adrenaline. Despite nursing injuries from my run in with the Bone Doctor and his minions, the sad and sorry state of my body didn't even enter the equation and I bounced from one safe house to another across both the UK and Europe until, about a fortnight after what had gone down in London, I finally had a substantial lead to go on.

It was then that the second stage came along.

Reality.

I was on my own. End of story. While my basic, and, okay, perhaps not so basic needs were met by all the caches and safe houses I had all over the world, that was it. I had as much money and as many false identities as I needed to safely get around unnoticed, and I had access to computers, guns and unofficial intel. At any given point I also had food and a roof over my head, and, most importantly of all, I always had my all consuming belief in what I was doing. What I didn't have though was companionship. Hell. I couldn't even pick up a phone and call HQ for assistance, let alone have a conversation with anyone I actually cared about. There was just... no one and, in a sense, nothing. It was all just... me, myself, and I. I had no one to talk to, or bounce ideas off, or even tell my side of the story to in the hope of them seeing the pattern I was convinced I could see forming. Nor was there anyone to stop me, or try to talk sense in to me, or... even to tell me that I was just being stupid. Worst of all, there was no pleasure to be found in anything. No reason to joke or smile and each day, regardless of whether I felt as though I'd achieved anything or not, was just like a carbon copy of the day before it. Relentless. Mundane.

Lonely.

Not having the safety net of the IMF to fall back on, I could cope with. Not having my friends around me to talk to, and both argue and bicker with, though... That was hard. As was not having Will – who, yes, in the relatively short time we'd had together I'd already come to take for granted – with me and out of all things that were lacking from my life, it was Will that I missed most of all. I missed his brilliant mind and his ability to see patterns and linked events where no one else could. I missed his eidetic memory and unerring skill in being able to recognise people by either the briefest of glances or most basic of sketches. I missed his confidence in being able to argue with me when I was too focussed – read, pig headed – in my belief that I was absolutely, one-hundred percent right and, while I was at it, it was either my way or the highway.

And...

I missed him for reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with his faultless and far reaching skill set. While it's not something I'd really thought about before, I now know that it's true, that... you won't know you'll actually miss something until it's no longer there. The... normalcy, if you like. The talking, the having to take someone else's wishes and needs into consideration, the knowledge that they're... just there. There to look out for you. There, next to you in the car, or on the sofa or mattress. There to agree with you, or argue with you, or even just to listen to you. There to offer comfort and reassurance, and there to... touch. I don't just mean in a sexual sense, either, as, when it all boils down to it, sex can be as meaningless as it can be easy. I mean, it can be easy to get, easy to move on from, and easy to forget. Having someone there though, someone who you can lean – physically – against, or roll over and hug, and who doesn't think twice of, without there even having to be a particular reason, replying in kind, well...

There's no comparison.

And not having it hurts.

It hurts so much that it actually risks becoming a distraction and it's because of this that it has to quickly give way to stage three.

Acceptance.

It is what it is. I'm on my own, and that's simply all there is to it. Wasting time on longing for what couldn't be wasn't going to achieve anything and nor was it something I really had time for. Life, regardless of how I actually felt about it, simply went on and I had to make the best of it. What's more, truth be told and all that, I didn't need anyone anyway. I had my mission, and I had my equipment, and not only was it enough, it was all that I actually needed. I had both a reason to get up in the morning and my unwavering focus, and nothing else mattered. I didn't have to worry about anyone else or put up with them questioning my motives. I could grab my bag and be out the door in a matter of seconds, and I could have as many random encounters with unquestioning strangers as I liked, and it just worked.

It worked and, all things considered, it was also for the best.

Which...

… Leads me to stage four.

Perhaps it's simply in everyone's best interests if I'm on my own.

Case in point. Take everything that happened to Benji for example. Unable to see any other way, I called him to Vienna for what was meant to an easy, a couple of hours at most, op, and just look how it turned out. Everything went to shit, Benji could have got shot, and, instead of dutifully hopping back on a plane like I'd wanted him to, he... stayed. He lectured me on going too far, and all but insisted that I needed him, and, in a moment of weakness, I gave in. I let him stay.

I made the mistake of letting him stay with me and, both a few days later and solely as a way to get at me, he was captured by Lane

My colleague... No. My... friend... came when I called and he very nearly paid for his misguided loyalty with his life.

Yes. The mission was ultimately a success and thanks, admittedly, to sheer desperation, we all survived. And, okay, maybe I'm far from convinced that I ever would have been able to achieve the same outcome on my own, but...

I don't know.

I just don't fucking know and the confusing, contradicting nature of my thoughts is doing my Goddamn head in. Are my friends safer without me? The answer here, I suspect, is a resounding yes. Yet... They're IMF agents, and the career they've chosen is the same one I have. They know what they're doing, and they do it by their own free will. Would I lose it if anything were to – God forbid – happen to them? Hell, yes. Logic, and training, and the threat of the consequences would mean nothing and seeking revenge would be the only thing that would keep me going. Can I do the job without them? Yeah. I could. Could I do it better with them by my side? Of course I could.

Do I want to be a part of a team again? Yes. And I want it to be... my... team.

Do I, however, believe they'd be better off without me? Again, yes.

Do I feel as though I'm at risk of drowning in my going nowhere sense of confusion and unfamiliar fear?

Yes.

“Well, that went well, I don't think,” Will mutters, the sound of his voice breaking through my thoughts and causing me to jerk my head up to stare at him. “Now, I either hit a nerve there or you're so dumbfounded that I could even dare suggest such a thing that you've been rendered momentarily mute, so...” Sighing, he looks me in the eye for a few seconds before giving a small shrug and, to my decided surprise, dropping his gaze. “Maybe... Maybe you're struggling to get your head around your near death experience, your... uh... so close as to be... actual... death experience. I mean, it's only normal...”

“Oh, that!” I interrupt with a dismissive snort. “That was nothing. Been there, done it all before. I mean, one more time and I'll probably be eligible for the T-shirt.”

“I...” Grimacing, Will gets to his feet and, without looking at me, goes to lean against the wall to my left. “I'm glad you find nearly dying to be a joking matter,” he murmurs plainly as he hugs his arms loosely around his chest. “In fact, I'm glad you can be so... blasé... about it, period.” Pausing, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back. “Because I can't. I think of you very nearly dying in Morocco, while I was only minutes, if even that, away, and I feel... Oh God, Ethan...” His eyes flying open, Will looks down at me with such a look of anguish on his face that I can't help but stare at him as though transfixed. “The thought of you dying, the... very... thought that it's happened before, it... It makes me feel sick to the stomach. Sick enough, even, to want to pretend I was never stupid enough to bring the topic up and just move on.”

“Will... It...” His obvious pain at the thought of losing me only adding to my confusion, self-hatred, and general feelings of worthlessness, I force myself to both shrug and look away. “It really isn't a big deal. Besides, it was only temporary and...”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Will interjects. “I know I started it, but, hey, this is me finishing it too. It happened, I can't change anything about it, and I.. I don't want to think about it!”

“After tonight, I'd have thought...”

“Don't! I don't want to hear it.”

“You should just cut your...”

“Ilsa,” Will states both loudly and cryptically as, clearly having made his mind up that the subject of my near miss with the Grim Reaper really isn't something he has any intention of talking about, he pushes on with pig-headed determination.

“Huh?” Caught hook, line and sinker by his nothing if not abrupt change in topic, I swivel around to better face him and, suddenly more interested in where he thinks he's going with this than I am focussed on blowing him away with my obtuseness, stare up at him expectantly. “What's she got to do with anything?”

“Perhaps you're regretting not having accepted her offer,” Will replies, an unreadable expression settling over his face as, unfolding his arms and letting them fall by his sides, he looks down at me and shrugs. “I was there, remember, and I heard every word of it. She wanted you, and why mince words here, to run away with her.”

“Oh...” Taken aback by this being something Will's clearly thought about in some detail, I slide my legs down flat on the floor and lean slightly forward so that he can see – just for a nice change in pace – he's finally managed to catch my full attention. “You know, to be honest with you here it's not something that's even crossed my mind. I mean, sure, I remember her making it, but...” Sighing, I make a point of holding Will's gaze and shrug. “It wasn't an offer I ever, not so much for a single second, contemplated.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Because of having to see the mission through?” he queries in a flat tone that's at direct odds to the hopeful expression he's too slow to stop from momentarily flashing up on his face. “You turned her down because of your obsession with The Syndicate.”

“I turned her down because I simply wasn't interested,” I reply, the truth – the whole truth, and nothing but the truth – spilling from my lips without either hesitation or altering for the first time in, I suspect, far too long.

“She certainly seemed interested in you. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, Benji seems to be of the opinion that she's basically the female version of you, that... you're like two peas in a pod.”

“Ilsa's a great agent who just happens to be exceptionally good at what she does. And, if you must know, I respect her and am firmly of the opinion that she'd be a great asset to any agency should she decide to return to the field. That said, I'm still not entirely convinced I'd ever be able to trust her unconditionally, and...”

“And?”

“I wanted to come in, okay? I wanted to finish what I started with The Syndicate and I wanted to try to pick up what I could of my old life, not... run off with Ilsa.”

What I also wanted, even though I can hardly come clean to him about it now, was Will. Not Ilsa. I never, contrary to the chemistry Benji might like to imagine he saw between us, wanted to be with Ilsa like I wanted to be with Will.

Wanted...

… Even now, still want. 

I can remember that afternoon. Sitting opposite Ilsa in the station and listening to her try to paint a picture of a life far removed from the one I've known my entire adult life while, out of the corner of my eye, watching Will lean against the wall in a pose not dissimilar to the one he's holding now. My mind was fully focussed on the task at hand, and I was as aware of Isla as I was not only of Will, but also Benji and Luther as well, and...

… For the first time in six months I felt something akin to completeness. 

My team, my... friends... were there, and they were there not because they shared my obsession with The Syndicate, but because I was important to them.

They were there for me.

Will...

… Was there for me.

And, because of this, the thought of disappearing with Ilsa never once entered my mind.

“We... I suppose you could say we were just using each other for our own gains,” I continue. “She wanted something from me, and... she was a means to an end to me. I know it probably sounds harsh, but that's just how it was. So... Again, no. I have no regrets in regards to not having accepted her offer.”

“Then...” Shrugging, Will pushes away from the wall and settles down in a kneeling position next to me. “I'm done,” he states. “Struggling to adjust, the whole near death experience thing, and Ilsa. They were the three choices I had for... uh... why you're the way you are, and if it's none of them then I'm out, I've exhausted my suggestions.”

“Maybe... Have you perhaps thought that you're only wasting your time? That I'm...”

“This may come as something of a surprise to you,” Will interrupts, shooting me the sort of warning look that states better than words ever could that, whatever it was that I'd been planning to say, he just doesn't want to hear it, “but deep down I'm as capable of stubbornness and determination as you are, and, having had more than my fill of it over time, I've decided that I'm done with just keeping it to myself and giving up. This, and, who knows, maybe this'll come as a surprise to you as well, but this... That is... You. You, and what I like to think we're capable of having together, means a lot to me, so...”

“After tonight, though...”

“Now, given that all of my suggestions were basically an epic fail, I'm going to try my luck going down another path,” he interjects, shuffling forward and, possibly in order to get a grip on me should I decide to just up and make a run for it, placing his hand flat on my thigh. “Ethan... Please. I want you to think about your answer here carefully and, even if it does go against your current stance on things, I want you to tell the truth. Don't... sugar coat it, or tell me what it is you think I want to hear. Just... Tell me the first thing that pops into your head. There's no wrong or right answer, I... I just want you to tell me when it last was you felt something... close to pleasure. Not relief, or adrenaline, or guilt, or even satisfaction. Pleasure. I want to know when you last felt as though you wanted to smile simply because it was instinctual.”

“I...”

It's ridiculous, and – seeing as it's the running theme of the night – I have no right, but...

I know my answer without even having to think about it.

I feel the warmth of Will's hand through the thin cotton of my pyjama pants, and it's almost as though I'm back there...

… Marvelling at the unexpected, not to downright amazing position I'd been fortunate enough to find myself in.

If the moment in the station was eye-opening, then this...

… This was the very embodiment of an epiphany.

“It was in that room with the Prime Minister,” I murmur, keeping my gaze fixed on Will's hand as he settles in to a more comfortable position next to me.

“Come on, Ethan. I said pleasure, not satisfaction,” he replies with a soft sigh. “Don't get me wrong, I get it, I do. Having Hunley there to hear you be so spectacularly proven right, it...”

“It wasn't satisfaction, and it had nothing to do with either Hunley or finally being vindicated,” I respond as, daring to take the initiative, I place my hand over Will's and press down on it. “It... It was you. When the Prime Minister made that comment about the warmth of your hand, you just looked so bemused that... when we caught each other's eyes, it... it hit me. You... You were there. Following my lead and... oh God... trusting me to both save Benji and not ruin your career, and I... Will... I couldn't show it, and you might even think me odd for remembering it like this, but I was just so... happy. Not because Atlee was spilling his guts. Hell, not even because my plan seemed to be working and I was beginning to believe we actually stood an increasing chance of seeing Benji in one piece again, but... You. Just having you there, Will, it... It meant everything to me...”

“So what you're saying is...”

“You. Again, I don't show it, and after tonight you'd be well within your rights to think I've got a nerve to even think it, but... Will...” Taking a deep breath, I curl my fingers around Will's and – better late than never – just... go for it. “You're the best thing in my miserable existence. Your... trust, regardless of how misguided it might seem now, and your belief in me, and... just the fact you're still here now, I... I don't deserve it, and the guilt riddled masochist in me wishes you'd rant and rave and beat my head against the wall like you've got every right to, but I want things to go back to how they were before London and, more than anything, I want you...”

“And you've got me,” Will replies in a soothing tone as, his face lighting up with a warm smile, he pulls his hand out from under mine and gently prods and pulls me until I get the hint to shift into a kneeling position in front of him. “What's more, you never, not once, stopped having me, either. Ethan... Don't let what happened tonight weigh you down. You need to focus on the good, and what you want to achieve, not...”

“But... When I think...”

“Think of it as a catalyst,” he states, reaching out his hand and stroking the back of it along my jawline. “A... full stop, if you like, on a chapter of your life that, after tonight, never needs to be referred to again. Just... Think about it this way. If that was rock bottom, the only way forward now is up. You, and you don't need to agree with me here because I already know, had one hell of a wake-up call tonight and now you've just got to run with it.”

“Run away, more like,” I mutter as – willpower apparently being a foreign concept to me tonight – I lean in to Will's familiar touch. “What I did...”

“Was fucked,” Will finishes both bluntly and with a roll of his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. What's more, you're not going to get any argument from me either, but... Listen to me, Ethan. Stop wallowing in self-induced self-pity for a minute and just listen to me. It's history. Hell. Everything up until this very moment is history. The Syndicate. The six months on your own. The fucking CIA swallowing the IMF. Your monumental brain fade of earlier tonight. All of it. It's all in the past now and we just have to concentrate on moving forward.”

“But...” I know I sound like a cracked record, but I just can't help it. “How can you be so, I don't know, forgiving or understanding?”

“Because I know the power of unexpected and... at the time, unwelcome... wake-up calls,” he replies, shuffling forward and placing his free hand on my hip. “Speaking from experience here, I shut down after Croatia and retreated to the world of analysis where, in all honesty, I suspect I would have stayed if it hadn't been for Cobalt and what happened in Moscow. Then there's Hunley and his stupid fucking... shoot to kill order. If he hadn't done that I never would have called in Luther and we never would have found you and Benji in Morocco. So... Don't underestimate the power of unwanted surprises handing you the kick up the ass you need to get moving.”

“But...”

“Seriously. Enough with the... buts... already,” Will murmurs, giving me a long suffering look as he drops his other hand onto my waist and gently pulls me closer. “Ethan... The other reason I'm able to be so, as you put it, forgiving, is you,” he continues in a whisper delivered directly into my right ear. “I get the feeling here that you don't even remember this, but the entire time you were having your little... uh... brain fade you were mumbling that you were sorry. Did you hear that? The whole time. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... Over and over. And that's what I concentrated on. Not the... other. Just your voice, and... And I knew that there was still hope, that... you were still in there somewhere.”

“I...” Following Will's lead by placing my hands on either side of his hips, I shake my head and gaze at him in wide eyed disbelief. “You're right. I have no recollection of that at all,” I confess softly. “All I can really remember is the knee-jerk, fucking... pointless... rage that overcome me and how it was... wrong. All of it. It was all wrong.”

“And the fact that you knew, at least subconsciously, it is why I'm still here.” Sighing, Will slides his hands up along my chest and plants a fleeting kiss on my forehead. “Look. We can keep going over all of this until the proverbial cows come home, or we can draw a line in the sand, a line that's never to be crossed again, and just work on moving on. I don't blame you, and I'm fairly confident that I more or less understand, and, Ethan, I just want to go back to bed and, tomorrow being another day and all that crap, put it all behind us.”

Emboldened by Will's 'let's just take it as a wake-up call and move on' – not to mention, no bullshit – approach to everything, I slide my arms around his waist and, as goosebumps break out across my skin at the realisation that he really is still okay with me touching him, pull him closer. “I'm sorry,” I whisper as, curling his fingers into my T-shirt, he relaxes into my embrace. “For everything. I'm sorry for falling down the rabbit hole, and... for keeping everything to my self in the deluded hope of being able to work things out on my own, and... I'm sorry for lashing out at the best thing in my life. Will, I... I give you my word that what happened tonight will never happen again, and that, yes, from this point forward I'm going to pull my head out of my ass and fight. I'm going to fight to return to being the man I was before London, and I'm going to fight for you, to... To prove to you that your trust and belief in me isn't misguided, and... that I love you and you mean everything to me.”

“I already know they're not misguided,” Will murmurs as, giving me the most beautiful smile, he plants another, far more lingering this time, kiss on my forehead. “Just as I know the man I fell in love with is still in there and that, when you say you'll fight, that's exactly what you're going to do, and, as I couldn't ask for anything more, all I really have left to say now is... Come on, let's just go back to bed...”

“Just... like that, huh?” I query perhaps just a touch facetiously as, locking my hands together and resting them on the small of Will's back, I hug him to me and – hardly believe my luck that this is actually how things have turned out – dare to believe that, against the odds, everything's going to work out.

I just have to fight, and – break a habit of a lifetime – talk, and accept that I have someone there for me in any and every way I might need him to be, and, above and beyond absolutely everything else, I...

… Have to do everything in my power to live up to the faith he clearly has in me.

“You're not saying you've got a problem with it, are you?” Will counters with both an arched brow and a quick laugh as his smile broadens and he glances pointedly towards the stairs.

“Uh... Oddly enough, no,” I reply, returning his smile, “as, no, I don't. I really, really don't.”

~ end ~


End file.
